


I Would Be Your Ganymede

by major_general



Category: Literary Trysts It Gives Me Great Joy To Think About RPF
Genre: M/M, literary history is amazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/major_general/pseuds/major_general
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Literary history tells us that in 1882, a young Oscar Wilde took a tour of America as part of a promotion for both himself and the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta <i>Patience</i> (whose central character was based on Wilde). During this trip, Wilde made two trips to Camden, NJ to visit Walt Whitman. No really. This happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Would Be Your Ganymede

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Idhren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idhren/gifts).



His mother had a copy of the book and she let him read it. He poured over each line, amazed at its beauty. What the poet was able to do with his words was remarkable, even if the boy he once was did not understand every bit of it. He longed to be able to capture something so profound through the sheer beauty of the English language. Then, of course, he went to Oxford and everything changed.

His mind was turned toward the beauty of beauty. He no longer concerned himself with the content. It was the conveyance that mattered. Pater had seen to that. Pater and those gorgeous Pre-Raphaelites. He had moved past the works of the Americans. He had surpassed them in his very being. Just because he had not the success that they had yet and was most famous in caricature did not mean that his art was not on a higher level. He was genius walking and the rest of the world should know it.  


So when that lovely man arranged for him to take a tour of the New World whose aim was only to show them how wonderful he was, Oscar immediately began preparing for his trip. If he managed to impress more people than he did write, it was no matter. This tour would be his making and everyone would line up to see his plays after this. _Vera_ would be sold out every night.

After wowing the crowds in New York, no matter what some critics said, he found himself with a dear fellow who happened to be a publisher. Good luck all around then. But Stoddart was throwing a fete for him which would be attended by all the best Philadelphia had to offer. When Stoddart casually mentioned that Mr. Childs, who would be in attendance that evening was good friends with the poet—you know him—Whitman, Oscar could not believe his luck.

“Does Whitman live here, then?” he inquired.

“Oh no, across the river, in Camden. It is a nice little town. Growing though as all these towns are.”

“Well, we must have him tonight as well.”

“I don’t think he leaves New Jersey very often. It’s unlikely he would cross the river, even for you.”

“Did he not cross many rivers during the war?”

“Yes, I suppose he did.”

“Well,” Oscar drawled as best he could, “you must invite him tonight.”

 

Oscar did his best to hide his anticipation of the poet’s response. When it came, it was both welcome and regrettable. Mr. Whitman would not come. His health prevented him. However, he would be at home from 2 to 3 ½ that afternoon. Oscar practically threw Stoddart out the door.

“How on Earth does one get to Camden?”

It turned out that one takes the ferry and then walks a block to the street where Whitman lived with his brother and sister-in-law. It was a lovely tree-lined lane. As they approached the Whitman house, Oscar could feel all his apprehension building up inside him. He’s worshipped this man as a boy. How does one address one of the greatest writers who ever lived? If it were Shakespeare or Marlow, what would one say? If it were Homer? How does one talk to him without sounding like a complete buffoon?  


And somehow he was brought into the room and there was this old man with a long, scraggly white beard and eyes that seemed to welcome him. HE seemed a sea captain, surrounded by the memories of his trade and not the poet Oscar had worshipped his whole life, but that didn’t matter because looks could be deceiving and this was the man that wrote those deliciously Greek lines that filled his young heart with joy. Of course, Oscar ruined his welcome immediately by telling his hero that he had been enamored with his writing his whole life. As soon as those words were out he regretted them. Could he but catch them in the air and put them back into his mouth so that he would not have to see Whitman’s pain at the words. Still the poet indulged him and served him some really horrible wine his sister-in-law had made. Oscar drank it with a smile.

“I will call you Oscar,” Whitman said.

Oscar couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching the man’s knee. “I like that so much,” he managed to squeak.

Walt (Walt!) began to ask him about his work and Oscar tried to throw off his nerves. He began to explain aestheticism and the beauty of beauty for beauty’s sake. Recognizing his audience Oscar tried to show how American Aestheticism could be. He talked of the democratization of the word and the great English artists who’d inspired him.

“Ah, yes, Tennyson. More and more he speaks to me. ‘Tho'/We are not now that strength which in old days/Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are.’”

“Yes, we love him so much” Oscar whispered.

“The layout on the page was never good for me though. His stanzas were so long. The reader would get lost in all those words. When I write, I try to imagine the typesetter.” 

He put his hands out in front of him and pantomimed the page. “It has to look right. All neat and pretty on the page, like an epigraph on a tombstone.”

“Yes, because how something seems is what matters.” He felt encouraged by this and observed, “I couldn’t bear to listen to anyone unless he attracts me by a charming style or beauty of theme.”

“Why, Oscar,” said Walt, “it always seems to me that the fellow who makes a dead set at beauty by itself is in a bad way. My idea is that beauty is a result, not an abstraction.”

Oscar was immediately admonished and quickly replied, “Yes, I think so too.”

Walt then offered him some punch and Oscar was pleased to accept, hoping that the fruity bouquet would take away some of the bitterness of the wine they’d consumed. What Walt gave him was not what the English would call punch. This was some sort of milk and whiskey mix, which again was not very appealing, but again he drank what was offered. He drank it in one gulp as if to keep it from lingering on the palate. Sadly, the speed at which he consumed it was not enough to keep the mixture from lingering in his mouth.

No matter the quality of the beverages, Oscar was delighted to share time with this man, this man whom he had always worshiped. Oscar basked in the feeling that he was able to connect with Walt, that in the old man Oscar had found a kindred spirit, even if they did not see eye to eye on the purpose of art.

Time had flown and Stoddart said it was time to go. Walt gave Oscar two signed photographs, one for him and one for his friend Swinburne. He stood precariously on the porch as Oscar left. Oscar knew that his face had lost its careful control, that all his emotions must show upon it. “Goodbye,” he called.

“Goodbye, Oscar,” he smiled. “God bless you.” 

“I shall stop by again,” Oscar called back. “I am coming back to Philadelphia in May. I will visit you then.”

 

On the carriage ride back to the hotel, Stoddart tried to say something about the wine but Oscar would hear none of it. “If it had been vinegar, I should have drunk it all the same, for I have an admiration for that man that I can hardly express.” Oscar wanted so much to cry, to run back to the house and set up a temple in the parlor at which to worship. “He is the grandest man I have seen, the simplest, most natural, strongest character I have met in my life. I regard him as one of those wonderful, large, entire men who might have lived in any age and is not peculiar to any people.”

Dutifully admonished, Stoddart remained quiet for the rest of the ride so that Oscar could bask in the memory of Walt’s smiles and approval. It certainly further endeared him when Oscar read an interview the poet had given wherein he called Oscar “manly.” He would have to see the man again.

And so, when he came back to Philadelphia five months later, Oscar sent a letter asking to visit once more. On May 10th, Oscar returned to Stevens Street to see Walt, dear Walt, who understood him and what he was trying to do. He did not, however, understand why Oscar came dressed as a cowboy, but they quickly moved past that.

No one else intruded upon them and Oscar felt he could address things, things he had wondered, things that spoke to him from the back of his mind, things that “Calamus” brought to mind. Again he touched Walt’s knee, but this time he let his hand move higher. Walt gave him a look that Oscar thought was maybe surprise, but certainly had some permission in it. Oscar threw caution to the wind and leaned in for a kiss.

At which point Walt blustered and sent Oscar into a pit of shame. 

“My boy,” Walt said, taking Oscar’s hand in his. “I am old before my time. I have had strokes and can barely walk. You do not want someone as old as me. Someone as young and virile as you must want the same. Do not waste your affections on me.”

Oscar gaped, unable to think of a proper rejoinder. It was as if he were some other man, some other normal man. He flushed and wanted to flee. He could not contain his embarrassment, but Walt pulled on his arm and put his other hand under Oscar’s chin. 

“Do not be ashamed,” he said. “Your affections are not unwelcome. They are just undeserving.”

Oscar shook his head and leaned in again.

When asked about this second visit, all Oscar could say was “The kiss of Walt Whitman is still on my lips.”

**Author's Note:**

> Idhren/JJ! I hope this is what you wanted and that you are having a fantastic Yuletide.
> 
> Much of the dialogue is direct quotation. We know what Wilde and Whitman talked about in January. The meeting was well documented. The second meeting was not. They could have gotten up to all sorts of sexytimes (well the sorts of sexytimes that a man who has had a few strokes and a man who has never had any experience with another man could get up to), but we don’t know. Sadly, I am just not confident enough to write that scene, so I hope you will be happy with the implication rather than the actual porn. 
> 
> I did want to write you the alternate history fic, but did not have time enough to do the proper research. I may still write that at some point because it was a fantastic prompt.


End file.
